


Let You Conquer Me Completely

by WhatEvenAmI



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Desperation, Foggy Nelson Is a Good Bro, Gen, Gentle Domming, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, Overstimulation, Panic Attacks, Platonic BDSM, Sensory Overload, slash if you squint a little
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2018-11-12
Packaged: 2019-08-08 18:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16434524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatEvenAmI/pseuds/WhatEvenAmI
Summary: Super-senses mix poorly with anxiety, forcing Matt to cope with attacks of debilitating mental overload.Luckily, he's got a friend and dom like Foggy to take care of him.





	Let You Conquer Me Completely

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kotaka_kun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kotaka_kun/gifts).



> It's 2018 and my emo little heart is stuck on Evanescence lyrics, sue me. Angsty music suits the times.
> 
> This was a request from kotaka_kun! I haven't actually watched a whole lot of Daredevil, so this fic is going to be plot-light and whump-heavy. Please kindly ignore any breaches of canon!

It happens after a late-night beatdown one January night, a too-close call, the case reminding him too deeply of things he's kept buried. He's already shaking with rage when a wailing ambulance that passes by just too close and hits his oversensitive ears the wrong way, making his nerves jangle. 

Matt wheezes, invisible bands tightening in his lungs. He stumbles the next few steps, rights himself, but when he tries to suck in his next breath all he can smell, all he can taste, is the pungent humid scent of sewage wafting out of a nearby grate, steaming and perturbingly warm in the cold winter air. The cloying, too-rich fattiness of hot dogs. Despairing sweat, fearful sweat, heroin sweat. He gags, and his lungs tighten still further.

He keeps working his way through the streets, nauseated, helpless, and vulnerable. Home, he thinks, get home. Anyone could get him like this, he’d never be able to fight them off. He’s as wobbly as a kitten learning to walk; he feels almost drunk, in the worst possible way—spinning, out-of-control. He stumbles onwards, head pounding with the assault of sirens and car horns. His stomach lurches, and he retches.

He must look like a drunk weaving his way home after getting tossed out of a bar, staggering and trying not to puke on the sidewalk, and the lucky thing about that is that no one bothers him, not wanting to get too close. Sorting out the sounds and counting the steps, feeling out the familiar sidewalks, seems a formidable task. He just wants to take a break. Lay down, rest his sweaty face against the cold sidewalk. Let the world reel around him, stop trying to navigate as it whirls this way and that. Breathe.

He sinks to his knees right there, to hell with what passersby think. It’s two in the morning, and the streets aren’t crowded, and he’s groping in his pocket for his phone, hoping the cold hasn’t killed the battery, and that he can draw enough breath to speak.

“Cah…” he rasps, and wheezes in painfully. “Call.” Wheeze. “Foggy.”

A pause, and then he hears the phone ringing. It’s strangely too loud, though it sounds very far away, and it causes his head to throb, but it’s a relief nonetheless.

The ringing causes his head to spin, but it helps to block out all the other noise jangling around in his head. He almost hopes it can just go on and on, although the part of him that’s still thinking rationally knows that if he doesn’t get help and he can’t get back up, he might very well die out here from the cold.

Death sounds kind of welcoming at the moment. It’d make everything stop.

And then Foggy’s voice, warped through overload and the echo of the phone connection, jars Matt out of his stupor. “‘Lo?”

Matt wheezes in to try and respond, wincing a little, knowing how bad it sounds. “Fog…”

“Shit. Matt, are you hurt? Did someone get you?” Foggy’s voice is panicked and concerned and Matt feels a rush of guilt and relief, knowing that he’s managed to scare and confuse Foggy just as he so often does, but also knowing that he’s going to come take over for him, steer for both of them, make everything settle down and be all right.

“Not...hurt...like...that.” Matt manages. “Not...hurt. S’app—” he sucks desperately for air, lightheaded and panicky. “S’happening...again. Panic...senses.”

“Oh,” Foggy says, concern and understanding taking over his voice now, always caring, no matter how much worry Matt manages to put him through. “All right, buddy, all right, hey. Are you at home?”

“No.” He’s really starting to shiver now, but he can’t bring himself to lift his head off the icy sidewalk. His head is just so damn heavy.

“Oh. Shit.”

“Yeah.” Matt manages to laugh a little.

“Can you tell me where you are?”

“M’not...all that...sure.” Matt coughs. The sound is like a gunshot to his overloaded ears, making him flinch, his insides churning.

“Oh, that’s not good. Hey, can you tell me where you.” The next words jumble up into the spinning cacophony of noise assailing him, and it takes a minute for them to settle into something that makes sense. “Last knew. Where you were.”

Matt manages to gasp out that much, then struggles to pull together the strains of an idea into a thought. “Phone. Siri. Locate me.”

Siri’s voice is like a knife in his ear, directly to his brain. But Foggy can hear it too, and Matt doesn’t have to speak anymore.

“Okay. Okay, Matty, I’m coming for ya. Don’t freeze to death before I get there.” Foggy speaks slowly and firmly, giving his brain time to grab onto each word and make it into something coherent. “That’s an order. And, Matt? Breathe! Nice and slow. I’m coming.”

He tries. An order from Foggy settles his mind into something capable of keeping him alive. He focuses on getting a good half breath, letting it out slow. He wishes he could put his hands over his ears, but he can’t bear the idea of losing his best sense to warn him of an incoming attack. He settles for bringing his hands up to cover his mouth and nose, breathing warmth into his fingers, blocking out all tastes and smells but his sweat and some hand soap.

Fuck, but who knew hand soap could be so irritating? He coughs a little and curls up tight, waiting. Counting his breaths, trying to suck in air. Little by little, the counting helps to steady the world around him. The spinning all around him isn’t quite so lopsided. The world still reeks and there’s too much noise, but what else is new?

Footsteps pass him by, coming too close and making him tense, then steadily gaining distance. One man stops by him and asks if he needs help getting somewhere. He forces himself to respond. “No. No. I got—someone coming.”

“Are you sure?” The man sounds very relieved to be let off the hook of obligation.

“M’sure.”

The man’s footsteps fade away. It’s not long after that that Matt hears the familiar rhythm of Foggy’s footsteps, his breathing, but it feels like an eternity, the cold biting at his fingertips now, shivering and nauseous in the dark.

When he does hear Foggy he’s instantaneously flooded with relief. He tries to raise his head, which turns out to be a mistake. His head slams down on the sidewalk, sending sharp pain through his skull. He moans; if he could see, he’s pretty sure he’d be seeing stars. He fights down another wave of nausea and waits, resigned to being found like this, seen at his lowest.

Foggy knows, by now, to keep his reactions to a minimum when Matt’s like this, to avoid overloading his senses or triggering more overwhelming emotions. “Thank God,” he says, relief palpable. “Gonna get you home. Gonna have to touch you, though.”

Matt braces himself for it. It’s not as bad as he expected. There’s some brief pressure under his arms and he shivers, managing to get his footing so he can help Foggy get him to his feet. Foggy takes his weight and wraps Matt’s arm around his shoulder. Matt unashamedly pushes his face into Foggy’s jacket, blocking out most of the choking onslaught of city stench. Now all he smells is sweat and Speed Stick Musk. The chemical scent of deodorant is a little overpowering when he’s in this state, but it’s better than boozy vomit and sewage.

Foggy’s arm around his shoulders is steady and bracing, and the world doesn’t spin quite so fast. With most of his weight resting against his friend, Matt finds himself able to walk. He doesn’t have to do any of the work he usually has to—counting steps, listening, smelling the air for familiar scents, all the extra work that comes with navigating a city without sight. It’s an unspoken agreement by now; ever since their junior year in law school, when Foggy had stumbled upon Matt retching and hyperventilating in his dorm room, he takes control of Matt and all his sensory input, letting Matt lean completely on him for care, telling him what to do so he doesn’t have to try to think through the pain.

Back then, Foggy had chalked it up to intense panic attacks, and had tried to get him to stop overworking so much. He got pretty good at figuring out what set Matt off and what helped him recover, but he’s gotten flawless at this ever since he uncovered the full truth of why Matt’s senses do this to him. It would have been so much easier, everything would have, if he’d just been upfront from the start; he never tries to debate any of Foggy’s I-told-you-so’s about that.

Foggy doesn’t talk on the walk home, knowing any additional noise isn’t going to help. They have a couple bad moments getting back; a car’s brakes squeal, making Matt’s brain flash in white-hot pain, and they pass a drunken couple having a screaming fight that makes him hyperventilate a little. It reminds him of too many unpleasant people he’s had to stop; men beating their wives and girlfriends, women who snarled and made vicious threats. Rank, boozy breath and bloody scratches. Foggy holds him steady, though, and eventually he pulls himself together and stumbles on.

Finally, he hears the familiar sound of the front door of his apartment building and is greeted by a rush of warm air and a welcome shield against the noise and reek of outside. It’s not completely silent—it never is, not with Matt’s enhanced hearing - but it’s like a soothing blanket has been laid over his brain. He’s able to tolerate the sound of his and Foggy’s footsteps on the stairs, Foggy’s heavy breathing as he holds Matt’s weight.

The feeling of thawing out is its own special hell when he feels like this, though, pins and needles burning hot in his fingertips and cheeks. He bears it as quietly as he’s ever borne a particularly nasty beating, but Foggy still knows him well enough to know that he’s in pain.

“I’m bringing you to the couch,” he says quietly, once they’ve reached Matt’s apartment. “Lie down for me, okay?”

“Yeah,” Matt grunts, letting Foggy guide him down onto the cushions, his head propped up on the arm of the couch. He feels almost feverish, weak and shaking and flushed with the shock of going from a very cold outdoors into sudden warmth. When Foggy’s footsteps fade away, a childish part of him wants to call him back, keep him close and refuse to let him leave. But he hears the footsteps returning soon enough, as well as a rustling of fabric.

“Touch, incoming,” Foggy warns, and then a heavy blanket is being laid out over his legs. It’s difficult for him to let Foggy help him out of his coat, the touch in what seems like a million different places making him want to jump out of his skin. But then the coat is gone and the blanket, grounding and heavy, is being smoothed over his chest in a slow, soothing motion. “There you are,” Foggy’s voice is soft. “Breathe for me, Matt.”

He tries to; the noise he makes is terrible, like he’s been punched in the chest, but the warm air is far less hostile in his lungs than the winter winds outside. Foggy commands him to breathe again, and he sounds slightly less deathly this time. His lungs hurt, but they are ceasing to constrict, little by little, both from the shelter of his apartment and the abatement of panic now that Foggy’s here to take care of everything.

“And, breathe,” Foggy says again. This time he manages to get a real amount of air in his lungs. They cry out in sharp protest, but the oxygen means the spinning in his head lessens.

“Perfect,” Foggy says slowly, so Matt can process without pain. “Stay there. Keep doing that. I’ll make tea.”

“Don’t have tea. M’not a grandma,” Matt murmurs, but he gratefully hefts his too-heavy arm to rests his hand on Foggy’s arm before letting it drop. He’s just really, really glad to have Foggy in his life, who will never make him ashamed to be seen like this, desperate and struggling. Who never makes it feel like a big deal to take over all his care like this.

“Cocoa? Or is that too sweet? I’ll heat water,” Foggy says conclusively. He moves Matt’s arm beneath the blanket and places his hand on it firmly, meaning, you stay under there.

He’s only too happy to oblige. He feels warm, and safe, and protected from the onslaught of noise he can still vaguely hear from outside. He’s stopped shaking so badly. The blanket is heavy, steadying him. He can still feel every inch of his body complaining about the remaining pins and needles from being out in the cold for so long, though, and he grits his teeth against the feeling. His head hurts, and he hopes Foggy will be back soon to make that all better.

He can hear water beginning to bubble over in the kitchen as Foggy boils some water. He focuses in on the one sound and tries to block out all others - the sound of bubbling water is inoffensive and homey, unlike the cacophony of car horns and screechy brakes and chattering voices from late-night bar patrons he was contending with before. From the scent of herbs and lemongrass in the air, Foggy has managed to find some tea.

Before long Foggy’s footsteps are making their way back toward him, and the herbal smell grows stronger. It’s calming, the cleansing lemongrass cutting through all the other scents that were overwhelming him. “I’m going to hold this under your nose so you can breathe it in,” Foggy says quietly, “When it’s cooled down a bit I’ll give you a sip.”

“I owe you, Foggy,” Matt says weakly, “Big-time.”

“Damn right you owe me,” Foggy says, stern but still quiet enough so as not to exacerbate Matt’s headache. “Running around letting things get this bad without getting help. Next time, you’ll call me sooner, got that?”

Matt groans. “All right. All right, yeah. I owe you that. I know.”

“You are so damn bad at asking for help,” Foggy must be wafting the steam from the tea towards him, because there’s a soft brush against his face, accompanied by a strong whiff of lemongrass. “Just ask, Matt. Come on, man, that’s all you can do. Don’t get yourself killed. Just tell someone what you need.”

“All right. God, I am sorry,” Matt murmurs, struck anew with guilt at the anguish in his friend’s voice.

“Maybe get some backup or something,” Foggy suggests, “I don’t know if I’m the type to run around in Spandex—actually, you know what, now that I had to picture that you owe me dinner too. If I can ever get my appetite back.”

“Daredevil and the Avocado,” Matt murmurs. He can hear Foggy trying to stifle a snort. “Doesn’t have the best ring to it. We can work on it.”

“Ugh,” Foggy says, “I am not being your avocado. Drink your tea. We’ll talk about the sidekick thing later.”

The cup of tea is surprisingly tall in Matt’s hands, and he immediately realizes what Foggy’s trying to do, and a hot flush comes to his face. Even so, he lets Foggy guide the cup to his mouth with one hand, propping his head up to drink in the other. As with the smells, the faint but sharp lemongrass cuts through the overwhelming tastes carried on the air, without being overwhelming itself. He readily allows several sips to be coaxed into him, warming him from the inside.

“You planning to Hadley me when I can barely move?” Matt asks, referring to the dorm he lived in when he and Foggy first discovered that getting Matt hyperfocused on one pressing sensation immediately took all focus off his other senses, and that the quickest way to do that was to overfill his bladder. “I don’t want to have a repeat of junior year. This is a really nice couch.”

“We’re not gonna have a repeat of junior year,” Foggy says patiently, “I’m not too drunk to hold onto you this time. And by the way, I’ve never told a living soul about junior year. No matter what you put me through. Because I am a saintly avocado. Now, drink your tea.”

Matt drinks his tea. The room has stopped spinning, mostly, although he wouldn’t really trust himself to walk in a straight line should the need arise, and Foggy’s voice isn’t making his head throb anymore. He sighs and takes the cup, drinks his tea. It’s embarrassing to let himself get that desperate, even more so after the hit to his pride from being found shaking and helpless in the cold. But it’s Foggy, who never told a living soul about that one night in Hadley Hall, who’s never hesitated to come over whenever something’s triggered one of these episodes, who’s never uttered a word of judgment over Matt’s needing someone to take charge when he’s like this. So he keeps on drinking, breathing in the soothing steam.

“There you go,” Foggy says softly, and his hands are smoothing the blanket over him once again. His skin no longer burns from cold. Instead, he registers the threads of his clothing, the soft weight of the blanket. The cool press of his buttons over his stomach and chest, that certain strangeness when he can’t help but register the extra folds and stitches of pockets. Each individual sensation is no longer an assault on his senses, melding together into a shrieking cacophony. Instead it’s merely a curiosity, overly present but not as antipathetic.

Foggy’s taking hold of the mug again and guiding it to his lips. He drains the cup of its comforting warmth, and he immediately hears Foggy rising to pour another one. The warmth pools in his belly, feeling like home, like when he was a very young child at his most content, eating dinner with his dad. His breathing is coming easier.

It’s weird, the feeling of his oversensitive body detecting the liquid making its way through his internal organs. It’s not the most pleasant sensation, and he winces a little, but Foggy’s hand is on his forehead, a directive to be calm. He’s in charge, and Matt’s only job is to breathe and rest up and let Foggy guide him through what’s coming next.

“You’re doing so much better already,” Foggy tells him. “Next time you gotta get ahold of me sooner, man. Or someone who can help you.”

“No one could do it like you,” Matt admits quietly, “You’re the only one I’ve ever trusted with this.”

Foggy is silent for a moment. The tea he drank is beginning to settle in his bladder, creating an increasingly sharp urge, but Foggy’s hand is still on his forehead, soothing and holding him down.

“Then you need to act like it,” Foggy says, a slight crack in his voice. Matt is struck again at how selfish he’s been, giving such little regard to how his nightlife affects his friends. He’s not sure he can do this, open up and lean on them, but he has to try, because Foggy said so and Foggy’s the boss right now and he really, really doesn’t want to be the kind of person who puts his friends through this shit.

“Yes, sir,” he says finally, fidgeting a little on the couch. The urge is getting to be strong now, and he has to exert more effort to hold it in. But he’s gained back strength, listening to Foggy’s voice and breathing in the cleansing aroma of his tea, so he’s not in any danger of pissing on the couch just yet.

“Need to go?”

“Yeah,” Matt says. “It’s not too bad.” Foggy’s not going to let him off the hook until the need to go has eclipsed every other sensation. It’s always so damn embarrassing, to be seen writhing and needy like that, but Foggy’s just picked him up off the sidewalk where he was helpless to move, and they’re really beyond “embarrassing” anyway.  
It’s still hard not to feel a little self-conscious as he shifts on the couch to press his legs more tightly together.

“So, are we going to have a talk about your lone wolf act, Matt?” Foggy asks in a voice that lets Matt know that yes, they are. He knows better than to start on about maintaining his secret identity. It’d be insulting.

Instead he forces himself to get a deep breath. It only aches a little to breathe. “It’s hard. I should have trusted you, I know that now. I’ve never trusted anyone with this. Not even hospitals—you know how Fisk operated. He had his fingers in every system of authority we have. You remember how Karen was nearly murdered in her cell? He threatened a prison guard. It just takes one wrong person, and this city is—” He wheezes painfully and coughs mid-sentence, and Foggy’s hand settles gently on his chest, guiding him to breathe. He seriously has to piss now, and he unashamedly crosses his legs tightly together once he figures out where they are and how to get them to move the way he wants them. At least they’re not hurting.

When he can breathe again, he continues. “This city is too damn big, it’s too full. Any of those people could be that just-one-wrong-person. They let something slip, or—or they have connections to someone who wants Daredevil wiped out.”

“But I’m not just one person, Matt,” Foggy says, a little heavily but with great patience. “Not to you. I shouldn’t be. Especially when you’re out risking your life, or—or messing around behind the scenes in one of our cases? You know how hard it is to keep Nelson and Murdock functional when Nelson barely knows half of Murdock’s game plan?”

“It wasn’t fair to you,” Matt agrees. His bladder is so full, he’s sure if he rubbed his hand over his stomach he could feel the distension underneath. The pain helps him focus, and he draws his legs in a little. “And you’re not just one person, Foggy, and neither is Karen. I just—worry about drawing you into all of this. I have these abilities, my senses, and I am very, very good at taking a beating. I’m not trying to say you have no autonomy here. I know you can make these decisions for yourself.”

“You’re damn right you’re not trying to say that, because that would be bullshit,” Foggy says easily, and he does run a hand over Matt’s stomach through the blanket, pressing down on his bladder and sending a sharp twinge of pain through him. He gasps, and the air comes in easily. He has to hold himself, to keep from letting go right onto the couch, but it doesn’t matter, Foggy can see him, he’s allowed. “And a good lawyer doesn’t spout bullshit he doesn’t fully believe.”

Matt laughs a little, sweating with the effort of holding in his piss as he does so. “Look, we can work something out, something where you don’t have to fight. I get it, that I don’t have to do this alone, but it’s easier feeling like I can just keep everyone out of it. Your names, too—I thought if you weren’t connected to Daredevil, you were safer.” He squirms and writhes a little. Fuck, it hurts now, but at least his body is responding when he needs it to. “God, I need to piss.”

“Want me to get you up now?” Matt could probably get to the bathroom on his own at this point, but the unspoken rules of their little dynamic state that Matt relinquish control and independence to Foggy, and it’s damn hard but it’s so fucking secure, when Foggy puts an arm around his shoulders and eases him into a sitting position. Matt doesn’t have to stress or worry his overloaded mind. Foggy’s got him. He leans heavily onto his friend’s shoulder and tries to get his feet firmly on the floor so he’ll be easier to haul up. The shift in position sends a surge of pain shooting through his abdomen and he almost loses it all right there, but Foggy hears him gasping and pulls him to his feet. “Small steps, now. Lean on me.” And Matt does.

“By the way,” Foggy adds, as they’re making their way to the bathroom, “That thing about protecting us is bullshit too. Do you know what it would do to us if you died and we could have stopped it?”

Maybe it’s just the remaining overstimulation, but the sting that rises in Matt’s throat seems magnified. It spreads throughout his chest and in his head, and all he can do is lean his head on Foggy’s shoulder for a moment. They come to a standstill for a second, until Matt’s able to move again. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, and he really, truly is.

The moment can’t last—Matt’s throbbing bladder takes precedence over any thoughts or feelings that Foggy’s going to demand they work through later. They get moving again, until Matt the sound of Matt’s sneakers against the floor changes from wood to tile. He focuses on standing still, wriggling slightly in an effort to hold it in, as Foggy unzips his fly and takes his pants down. The air is cold against his legs, which isn’t helping. Then he’s being deposited on the toilet, humiliation replaced now by the safety and trust filling up all the space in his head.

“You can go now,” Foggy says quietly, and with a sigh, Matt does. Foggy holds him steady and he’s got him, he’s always got him, through the ugliest of times. He shudders, overwhelmed in a positive way this time. The sudden lack of pain send a wave of euphoria through his whole body, warm and shivery, and for a good minute there’s just the sound of piss hitting the water, the feeling of weak relief, and Foggy’s warm hands on his shoulders. Undoubtedly he’ll be here throughout the night, to keep an eye on him, to keep him in check.

For as long as Matt needs keeping, Foggy will always be here.


End file.
